While Elian was miles away from Brumaria, Maria battled the rising anxiety swelling in her chest, clinging to any fragile remnant of calm she could find. She tried to nurture positive thoughts about the conference her youngest son and Elise were facing that day, but serenity slipped through her fingers like water.
She had remained at Elise's house since early morning, keeping herself busy with endless cleaning and tidying as a way to keep her mind occupied. She wiped down furniture, washed dishes, organized cupboards—any task served as an excuse not to drown in her worries. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, the image of Elian standing before such powerful figures returned to her mind again and again, shattering the fragile distraction.
Outside, the presence of security was constant. Since the attack, Marduk and Gremory had been taking turns guarding the property, and that day, it was Gremory who stood watch. His imposing figure remained stationed near the gate, vigilant, a silent wall against any threat.
The sun was already tilting toward the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, while the lengthening shadows announced the inevitable arrival of night. The chill of evening crept through the fibers of her simple clothing, brushing against her skin and drawing faint shivers. Her red hair swayed with the wind, and her eyes, fixed on the sky, seemed to search for answers that would never come.
She stood in the backyard of Elise's home, where Emanuelle practiced her spells against the same tree Elian had once asked her to strike five times. In the distance, Gremory's silhouette remained still, his gaze scanning every corner of the surroundings.
Maria kept her hands clasped tightly, as though trying to keep her body from betraying the storm her mind could no longer conceal. How could she possibly be at ease, not knowing exactly what Elian was facing before some of the most powerful names in the entire kingdom of Elveron?
She knew, with the bitter clarity of one who had suffered too much, that clinging to positive thoughts alone was no guarantee of good news. Something beyond the brutal death of Arthur still haunted her—old memories, scars time had not erased. And, like a silent tide, that past began to rise again, threatening to swallow what little peace she had managed to preserve.
Her memories drifted fourteen years into the past, long before she had met Arthur.
Maria had been born into a family of merchants—not wealthy, but living a stable, comfortable life without great hardship. At that time, she was only thirteen, and her world was simple, colorful, and safe, surrounded by her parents and siblings.
She was the youngest of five children: two boys and three girls. She had grown up amid the bustle of market stalls, the scent of spices, and the creak of carts rolling along cobbled streets. The city where she lived was at least ten times larger than Brumaria—a vibrant place of nearly eleven thousand souls, where every street corner hid voices, stories, and opportunities.
Among the figures who frequented the family's stalls and warehouses, there was a particular customer who stood out—not just for his upright posture and fine clothes, but for the persistent gaze he always cast toward Helena, Maria's eldest sister.
He spoke little, but his calculated demeanor and calm tone in negotiations betrayed that he was not just another ordinary buyer. Helena, long accustomed to male attention, treated him with polite courtesy while keeping a measured distance—perhaps by instinct, perhaps because she understood that this man, with his impeccable manners and cold eyes, carried a weight beyond the coins he offered.
Maria, still a child, watched all of this with curiosity. She did not understand why he visited so often, nor why he always seemed to appear when Helena was alone at the counter. To her, he was simply "the man in fine clothes," someone who somehow changed the atmosphere of the house, making the air feel heavier.
Little did Maria know that this man—still nameless in her memory—would cross her path again many years later, carrying not only memories but also scars and threats that would forever alter the course of her life.
A year passed, and Maria, now fourteen, was helping more actively in the family's trade. She had learned to weigh goods, organize stock, and even bargain with more demanding customers. It was late afternoon when something unusual happened.
The man in fine clothes appeared not at the market, but at the family's front door. His well-kept boots contrasted with the dust of the street, and his dark coat, embroidered with subtle details, spoke of meticulous care for his appearance.
He was received by Maria's father, who knew him by sight from past transactions, though it was strange to see him away from the stalls and warehouses. After the formal greetings, the visitor wasted no time: with a firm yet courteous voice, he announced that he had come to ask for Helena's hand in marriage.
The silence that followed was heavy. Maria's mother exchanged a quick glance with her husband, and Helena, who had been arranging baskets in the corner, froze in place, not even turning fully to face him. Sitting on a nearby bench, Maria felt the air change, as if the room had suddenly shrunk.
Her father, though surprised, kept a polite composure and asked the man to explain his intentions. He spoke of stability, of how he could guarantee a comfortable life for Helena—but the cold glint in his eyes and the measured precision of every gesture made it seem as though his words had been rehearsed, leaving no room for refusal.
Her father drew a deep breath, his calm voice carrying the firmness of one who had already decided.
"I appreciate your proposal, sir… but it will not be possible. Helena is already engaged."
An odd silence filled the room. The man stood motionless for a few seconds, as if processing the words. Then, a faint smile formed on his lips—not one of courtesy, but one laced with something colder, more deliberate.
He straightened his shoulders, and with an almost insolent confidence, said:
"Perhaps it's because I have not properly introduced myself."
The air seemed to thicken in the room as he continued:
"I am Baron Hoffmann."
The name fell like an invisible blade. Even at her young age, Maria noticed the immediate change in her parents' expressions. The mention of a noble title in that context shifted everything.
The Baron took a step forward, gauging their reactions, and his voice, now quieter, carried a threat that needed no explicit words.
"I'm not accustomed to hearing 'no.' Think carefully, sir… certain decisions can be costly—for the entire family."
His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Helena before returning to Maria's father. A shiver ran down Maria's spine, as though she had just witnessed the beginning of something far beyond anyone's control.
Her father kept his chin high, but Maria, who knew him well, caught the tension in the way his fists clenched behind his back.
"The decision is made, Baron Hoffmann. Helena will marry the man to whom she has already been promised. There is nothing more to discuss."
For a moment, the silence was so deep Maria could hear her own heartbeat. The Baron regarded the man before him like a predator assessing whether its prey would run or fight. Then, leaning slightly forward, he let a crooked smile appear.
"Very well…" he said, with a calm more dangerous than any shout, "but I always find a way to get what I want."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed, his eyes met Maria's. It was brief, but intense enough to make her shrink back instinctively. There was no interest or kindness in that look—only the silent warning that he remembered faces, and would remember hers.
The door shut with controlled force, yet the sound echoed through the house like a bad omen. Helena turned pale, her mother took her hand, and her father remained still, staring at the entrance as if he already knew this would not be their last encounter.
In the months that followed, the merchants' home lived under a clouded sky, even on sunny days. Conversations at the table were shorter, the siblings' laughter always restrained, and Helena rarely left without company. A silent weight settled over every gesture, as if all of them were waiting for something to happen—a return, a retaliation, a message.
But time, stubborn as ever, slowly dissolved that suffocating tension. The visits to the market became lighter again, dinners regained some of their joy, and even Helena, little by little, resumed the habit of smiling. The name Hoffmann ceased to be spoken, as if ignoring it were the only way to drive away the shadow he had cast over the family.
Seven months later, that false calm shattered in a single night.
The sound of wood splintering under force thundered through the merchants' home, tearing Maria from sleep. The acrid stench of smoke filled the air before she could even comprehend what was happening. Screams—her mother's, Helena's, her brothers'—mingled with the heavy stomping of boots and the crash of furniture overturned.
Hoffmann was not alone. Armed men, faces half-covered, spread through the house like a plague, overturning tables, smashing display cases, and scattering goods across the floor. Amid the chaos, he appeared—imposing, dressed like a nobleman on a visit, not like a thief. The smile on his lips carried neither haste nor fear, but the calm certainty of someone who already knew nothing here could stop him.
His eyes searched for neither gold nor goods… they hunted for Helena. And when he found her, his men closed in like wolves. Maria's father tried to intervene, but was struck down and hurled against the wall. Blood smeared the corner of his mouth, staining his white shirt as he struggled to move, helpless.
Maria, hidden behind the shop counter, trembled. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared they would hear it. She wanted to run, wanted to scream, but was trapped between the instinct to flee and the terror that held her frozen.
That night, the house that had once smelled of spices and polished wood became a stage for destruction and despair—and the name Hoffmann, avoided for months, branded itself forever into Maria's memory as a synonym for fear and loss.
The chaos reached its peak when Hoffmann gave the order that sealed the family's fate.
Without hurry, as though committing a mundane act, he drew his sword. The cold gleam of the blade caught the reflection of the flames beginning to consume the furniture, and in one precise movement, he severed Maria's father's neck before them all. The sick, wet sound of steel cutting flesh was followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Still crouched behind the counter, Maria felt her stomach twist. The sight of life spilling from the man who had always been her anchor was so brutal she nearly cried out—but she stifled it, biting her own fist until she tasted blood.
Her mother was next. Hoffmann seized her by the hair, forcing her to look at him before driving the blade across her throat. Her dress turned a vivid, soaking red, and the eyes that had once been so full of tenderness went lifeless there, in front of the hidden daughter.
Helena, restrained by two men, cast a desperate look toward where she knew Maria was hiding. Her lips trembled, but no words came—only the almost imperceptible movement of her hands, pointing toward the narrow hallway that led to the back door. Her eyes pleaded: go, run, survive.
Every second weighed like an eternity. The scream trapped in Maria's throat became a suffocating knot. The air was thick with the stench of blood, charred wood, and fear, clinging to her skin, her memory, her soul.
She crawled toward the corridor Helena had indicated, her knees scraping against the rough floor, when a sharp metallic sound made her stop.
She turned instinctively—and the sight carved itself into her mind like a scar. Helena, still held by the two men, moved with sudden, desperate strength. In an impossible act, she snatched the dagger from one of their belts.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. No words—only the silent, unmistakable message in her sister's gaze: You have to go. Now.
Before anyone could stop her, Helena turned the blade on herself, driving it deep into her own abdomen. A hot, crimson spray stained her dress, and shock rippled across her captors' faces.
Maria watched, frozen, as Helena's body lost all strength and collapsed slowly, as though the entire world had fallen into slow motion. The dull thud of her fall echoed in the room, muffled only by the distant crackling of flames.
The last image Maria would ever carry of her sister was that still face, eyes open, a final sacrifice to give her a chance to escape.
Maria ran without looking back, each step driven more by instinct than by the strength left in her body. The night swallowed the road ahead, lit only by the faint light of the moon filtering through the treetops. The cold bit into her skin, but the heat of blood—hers and others'—still clung to her hands.
For three days and nights, she moved like a wraith, without direction, only seeking to get as far from that hell as she could. The wind howled through twisted branches, carrying the faint scent of distant smoke and memories she wished to bury. Hunger twisted her stomach; her bare, wounded feet bled with every step over stones and brittle twigs.
By day, the merciless sun made the dust of the road cling to her sweat-soaked skin and tangled red hair. By night, the cold gnawed to the bone, forcing her to curl beneath hollow trees or cover herself with dry leaves, trying to shield against shadows that seemed to whisper her name.
On the third morning, exhausted and staggering, Maria came upon a cart stopped by the edge of a field. The smell of fresh bread and hay reached her before she saw the people. A simple family, dressed in worn clothes but with gentle smiles, paused their work as they noticed the thin, frightened girl emerging from the road.
And that was how, with a heart still heavy with grief and a body on the verge of collapse, Maria met Arthur—the young man who, years later, would become her husband and the father of her children.
Maria still stood gazing at the sky, now painted with the deep shades of twilight, feeling the cold wind play through her red hair. The memories that had crept in uninvited burned like heated iron, and her chest felt as heavy as if every breath carried the weight of all those years.
Her lips moved without her noticing, a whisper so low that the wind itself seemed to carry it away before anyone could hear:
"You destroyed my family again, Hoffmann…"
"Mama!"—Emanuelle's soft voice broke the silence, calling from the doorway. "Come inside, it's getting cold."
Maria blinked, forcing the shadows of the past away. She turned, smiling faintly at her daughter, and walked to the door. Taking Emanuelle's small hand, they crossed the threshold together, leaving the cold night and the memories behind—at least for now.